


Fire and Whiskey

by Stark_on_the_Iron_Throne (Keepcalmanddontgetangry), thegreatandterriblematt



Series: Winchester and Sons [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Drunk Driving, Gen, Minor Violence, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepcalmanddontgetangry/pseuds/Stark_on_the_Iron_Throne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatandterriblematt/pseuds/thegreatandterriblematt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the anniversary of his marriage, and John Winchester has to face the demons within. But fighting the darkness inside him proves to be harder than battling the supernatural, and when John lashes out, he risks destroying the only family he has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural and the characters represented in this work do not belong to us. This is written for fun, not profit.

It was late. Or was it early? John wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed since he’d managed to pry himself away from the bar where he’d spent most of the night. He’d stumbled out of the door and onto the street with the good intention of heading straight back to the motel and his sons, but had been diverted, drawn in by the siren call of the neon-lit, late-night off-licences, where he had entered in search of further ‘supplies’. 

It was something of a miracle that John got back to the motel at all. The place they were staying was in the shadier part of town, and he walked home to the midnight music of police sirens, broken glass crunching underfoot. For once, luck was on John Winchester’s side, and for whatever reason none of the late night predators, supernatural or human, took advantage of him. When he finally did get back and into the room, after minutes spent drunkenly fumbling with the keys and fighting with the door handle, the first thing he did was check on his boys, leaving the light off in an attempt to not disturb them, before treading heavily and carefully across the dark floor to sit on his bed and tug his boots off. 

John’s caution was in vain, though he failed to notice. His eldest son was wide awake, hadn’t slept in fact. Dean shifted in his bed, making his younger brother, pressed up close against him for comfort, twitch in his sleep. This was only meant to be a one night stop, so there hadn’t been much point in renting out two rooms. At least that’s what Dad had said. Then again, he’d also said that he’d be back in five minutes, which had been about six hours ago (Dean had been counting). That meant that chances were they’d be staying here for at least a couple more nights, since there was no way Dad would be in a fit state to get behind the wheel tomorrow. Dean had known even before they’d checked in that Dad was in one of his… moods. And it concerned him greatly that he didn’t know exactly what was causing it.

“Dad?” Dean asked the dark room. Sam’s steady breathing was a greater comfort to him than he was willing to admit. Carefully, he sat up and jumped out of bed, doing his very best not to wake Sammy. “Dad?” he whispered again, edging towards his father’s bed.

“G’to bed, Dean,” John mumbled, turning to squint blearily through the gloom at the small figure of his son. Just the sight of Dean was painful, a reminder of Mary. 

“Can’t sleep,” Dean said, inching closer to his Dad. The relief he’d felt at seeing him had lessened as it became obvious that he’d been drinking, the stink of whiskey, beer and cigarettes rolling off him in waves. “Are you…?” Dean’s question trailed off. He’d already learnt that Dad didn’t like it when anyone asked him if he was okay, even when it was clear there was something wrong. He didn’t like it when Dean, or Sammy, brought up that things weren’t always great either. They had to bear on in silence. That was the number one, unspoken rule of being a Winchester. Still, it was hard for Dean, watching his Dad sway slightly as he sat, face rough with stubble and lack of sleep. 

“‘m fine,” John waved a hand dismissively, “‘m always fine, Dean. Got you boys still.”

Dean’s insides warmed a little at that. Their Dad wasn’t one for sentiment. On impulse, he breached the distance between him and his father, and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into his Dad’s shoulder, trying not to intentionally inhale the alcoholic fumes practically rising off his father. Although, and he would never admit it, he secretly liked the smell because it reminded him of his Dad.

There was a beat when Dean thought he was just going to be pushed away, and then his Dad’s arms wrapped around him, almost too tightly. “You’re a good boy, Dean.” 

Dean clung a little tighter; the words were good ones, even if he could hear how drunk his Dad was while he spoke them. “You’re so much like her.” John’s voice cracked, and Dean was horrified as he felt his Dad’s body start to shake. He didn’t know what to say or do, so he just clung harder, trying his best to silently offer comfort. It felt wrong, hearing his Dad cry, and not just cry but sob, broken and raw, alcohol stripping him down and leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way Dean didn’t like to think of his Dad as. He was meant to be invincible. 

“D-Dad?” Dean tried, voice muffled from how his head was buried in his father’s shirt and jacket. But his Dad wasn’t listening right now, the sound of his crying, a noise almost inhuman in its unfamiliarity, filled the air around them. Dean wasn’t accustomed to being held so tightly either, not by his Dad at least. A part of him wanted to indulge in the embrace, while the other part of him, the more dominant part, wanted to make sure that his Dad was okay.

For a moment they just sat together, until John’s sobbing gave way to words, broken and too quiet, but still distinguishable to Dean. “‘m trying so hard… so hard… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen… I didn’t know that these things were out there… ‘m… ‘m so sorry, Mary, ‘m so sorry…” His hand held his son’s head close against his chest, although he was not completely aware of which child he was holding. Was it Dean or was it Sammy? It was too big to be Sammy, but it couldn’t possibly be Dean. When had Dean got this big? And where had Mary gone? She had been standing right there… or at least, he thought she had been. 

Dean was trembling in his father’s arms. He had never ever heard his Dad talk like this, as if Mom were still around. It was scaring him. Sometimes he heard snippets of things while they were all crammed together in one room and Dean couldn’t sleep. One moment Dad would be snoring away, the room peaceful, the next he would be muttering to himself. Sometimes it was his and Sammy’s name he heard, sometimes it was a grumbling over his Dad’s last hunt and, more rarely, it was about Mom.

“Dad… it’s okay…” Dean found himself saying, knowing as he did that he was breaking one of their unspoken rules. “It’s me, Dad… It’s Dean… It’s okay, Dad… It’s okay.”

His Dad sat back, looking down at Dean as he did. His eyes were clouded from the alcohol, and Dean could see the confusion in them. “Dean?” he said, eyes clearing a little as the fog blurring the line between the past and the present lifted, “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Their arms were still, awkwardly now it seemed, around each other. And what made it worse was that Dean didn’t want to let his Dad go. “I couldn’t sleep,” he repeated, fidgeting in his Dad’s hold.

John considered that for a moment, glancing over at Sam who was fast asleep, who had taken the opportunity of Dean’s absence to sprawl out across mattress, lanky limbs stretching out like he was luxuriating in the space. John looked back to Dean. The solution seemed obvious. He shifted back on the bed, lying down. He pulled the sheets up next to him and patted on the mattress. “Sleep here, son, ’m here…” He paused as he noticed Dean’s hesitation. “Don’ worry about Sammy, ‘m here for him too.”

That seemed to do the trick. Dean climbed up onto the bed and settled under the blankets next to him. It had been a long time since John had let Dean sleep next to him like this, not since the time that followed after the fire. His son had been a lot younger then, and his emotions a lot easier to understand. It had often played out that by morning Dean would no longer be next to him anyway, instead lying next to his little brother, arms circling around him protectively, holding him like John had held Dean the night before. He was a good boy.

Dean couldn’t believe it. He was a little weary to call it “luck”, but he was certainly glad that his Dad had shown him a little understanding. Sometimes Dean did still find it hard to sleep. He envied Sam for that. Sammy was still young. He didn’t know all there was to know yet.It was a lot easier to get to sleep now that he knew his Dad was back safely. The arm that found its way around him was a strangely familiar comfort, one that Dean hadn’t had since he was small.

So, together, they slept, Dean fully relaxing for the first time in a long time. Normally he was a light sleeper, unable even while unconscious to stop existing in a state of permanent alert. For once he woke feeling rested, even if habit meant he did wake quite early. At first, he didn’t register what had woken him. Sammy, the first thing he checked, was still asleep, looking perfectly content and undisturbed.


	2. Chapter 2

John cursed himself under his breath as he saw Dean wake from him getting up. Normally he would scold his sons for not waking with him and sleeping in, but this morning John would have welcomed it. Them waking now would do no one any favours. He needed to get out for a bit, clear his head. He would be back to his sons soon enough and they would move on. It would not do to stay in one place for too long. John needed to keep busy and distracted, a days driving would help achieve that.

“Mornin’,” Dean yawned, sitting up. He glanced over automatically to where Sammy still slept, needing to check again that his little brother had been okay alone. “Sammy still asleep huh? I guess he’s pretty beat, probably be happy we won’t be leaving today.” He hopped off the bed, and moved towards the bathroom, missing the way John’s expression changed.

“Where’d you get the idea we’re not leaving today?” John said, following Dean over to the bathroom and leaning against the open door the boy brushed his teeth. He needed the support. He was currently in the hellish limbo between drunkenness and sobriety, where the room still spun dizzily every time he moved his head pounded rhythmically, sending pulses of pain through his whole body. Still, nothing a couple of aspirin choked down with coffee and a greasy diner breakfast wouldn’t fix. “Why’d we be hanging around this dump of a town? There’s nothing here for us anymore.”

Dean frowned, but took his time, rinsing and spitting while he thought of an answer that wouldn’t anger his father. He knew John didn’t like him mentioning his drinking. “I dunno, Dad,” he said hesitantly, “I just thought after last night…”

John’s jaw clenched, which only made the pain in his head intensify. “Thought what?” He clamped his mouth shut, stopping himself from asking things he didn’t want to know the answer to, like whether Dean was disappointed in him, what it had been like for him to see his father in that kind of state. The way Dean was looking down at the sink, like he didn’t want to meet John’s eyes made him angrier. Though Dean was just trying to not piss him off anymore, to John it felt like Dean didn’t want to look at him. He’d earned a drink, hadn’t he? The things he’d been through. God knows, some nights it was the only way to get any sleep. All he wanted was a little peace, he didn’t need his son disrespecting him or judging him. All he wanted was the peace he found at the bottom of a bottle, or two.

“Nothing,” Dean mumbled, letting it drop.

“Nothing, what?” John snapped.

“Nothing, sir,” Dean said, quietly resentful.

“You got that right. Now, I’m just gonna head out to pick up some breakfast. You wake Sam and pack, okay? I’ll bring something back for you boys.”

Dean nodded, and John clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “That’s my boy, Dean.” The resentment slipped off Dean’s face; he was always so eager to please, so hungry for John’s praise. John was gone within five minutes, not bothering to shave or wash, beyond splashing some cold water on his face. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, so he only had to pull his boots on and then he was out, door slamming on his reminder to wake Sam.

“Wha’s tha’?” Sam bolted upright, woken by the sudden noise, “where’s Dad? Did he get back?”

“It’s alright, Sammy,” Dean called from the bathroom, drying his face and hands, “Dad’s just gone out to get us some breakfast. He came in late last night, but he’s not feeling very well at the moment. Breakfast will help make him feel better. You hungry, Sammy?”

Dean jumped up onto his brother’s bed, finding it easy to smile at him. Having time with just Sam, when he knew where his Dad was going and how long he would be, was nice. It gave them a chance to kick back and relax and just act like the kids that they were. There was no great responsibility put on Dean at times like this because their Dad would be back soon. He was watching his brother for a couple of hours, tops, and not a couple of days.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Sam said, stomach growling. They hadn’t eaten much last night, since their Dad hadn’t left them money. “Is Dad okay? Hey, maybe if he’s ill, we can take the day off. That’d be cool, huh Dean?” Sam asked hopefully. It’d been awhile since they’d stopped over in a town long enough for him and Dean to just be allowed to go off and explore, and Sam was hoping he’d get a chance to find a library or a cheap second-hand bookstore.

“Yeah, Dad is fine,” Dean said, unsure whether or not that news would be taken well by Sam. “That would be pretty awesome,” he agreed, nodding, a little sad by the excitement Sam showed at the prospect of their Dad being sick. “But Dad’ll be back with breakfast soon and then we’ll be leaving. But hey, maybe the next place we stop in we’ll be able to look about in for a while… I’m sure that if we talk to Dad about it he’ll let us look around for a while. He’s not feeling great, Sammy, not sick but… you know how Dad gets. He’ll probably want some time alone somewhere.”

“You mean he’s hungover,” Sam said, rolling his eyes, “You don’t have to lie about it, Dean, I’m not a baby.”

“You’re still a baby sometimes,” Dean said, pushing his brother’s leg with his hand. It was all in play. He didn’t want to admit that their Dad was hungover. That would mean that his father’s words last night had been fuelled by alcohol and not from his heart. “And whatever, he’ll be back soon anyway. You can ask how he’s feeling then.”

Sam stuck his tongue and pushed Dean back, grinning up at his brother. Dean had that half-stubborn, half-worried look on his face that meant he didn’t want Sam to push it. So he dropped it; it wasn’t worth upsetting Dean over. Dad drinking didn’t bother Sam in the same way it did Dean. Sure, it annoyed him, particularly when it made Dad harder to get along with than ever, or when he spent all their money, but unlike Dean he couldn’t remember a time when their Dad hadn’t drank too much, too often. Though, to give their Dad credit, it wasn’t often that he drank himself into a stupor. “Fine. I guess we better pack then.”

“You should get dressed first,” Dean said, getting up and heading to their shared bag, “I got some of your clothes washed at that last place we stayed at, so you don’t have to wear that shirt anymore. You need new jeans too, Sammy. The ones you’re wearing are getting kinda short. Ankle-swingers. Not a good look, and you’re dorky enough already.  I’ll ask Dad about it. Maybe if he sees them he’ll believe that you’re growing fast.” He pulled out some new clothes for his brother to wear, they weren’t ironed but at least they were clean, and put them on the end of Sam’s bed.

“Gonna be taller than you soon,” Sam said, springing out of bed and bouncing over to Dean, grinning up at his older brother, who glared down at him from his vantage of a few scarce inches. It was a bit of a sore spot between them; Dean kept complaining he was the older brother and he should be taller, while Sam kept laughing and saying smugly that Dean deserved it, and that’s what he got for never eating his greens and living off cheeseburgers.

“The day you’re taller than me, Sammy, is the day that Dad’ll let me drive the Impala,” Dean said, hitting the back of his brother’s head and then scuffling his hair. “You need a haircut too,” he commented, “Otherwise people are gonna think you’re a goddamn hippie.”

“At least I don’t look like Sonic,” Sam commented. Dean had been experimenting with hair-gel recently, with varying levels of success.

Dean made a half-hearted swing at Sam for that comment, then glanced pointedly back at Sam’s fresh clothes. “Think you need a shower first before you get dressed. There should be enough time. Don’t worry about packing, I’ll do it while you’re in there.”

Grinning, Sam picked up his clothes a beat a strategic retreat to the bathroom. Dean rolled his eyes, knowing he let Sam walk right over him sometimes, then got to packing.

***

“Boys?” John’s voice called  through the door. A loud hammering sounded as he rapped his knuckles against it. “Lemme in. Stupid door,” he grunted, kicking at it and nearly overbalancing in the process.

Dean hurried to the door when he heard the commotion his Dad was making outside, cursing under his breath. The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves. From the way his Dad was hollering, Dean knew he’d been at the liquor again. Quickly, he opened the door and looked out at his Dad, who was standing on the steps a little unsteadily.

“Dean,” John slurred, swaying on the spot, “there you are. Damn door stuck.” Unsteadily, he stepped into the motel room, looking around with a frown as he saw the still-open, half-packed duffel bags. “Thought I told you boys to pack? Where’s Sam? He leaving you to do all the work again?”

“No sir, I told him to have a shower while he could,” Dean said, in an instant slipping back into his role of obedient little soldier, “I said I’d pack up while he did.”

“Good,” John grunted, sinking heavily down onto the bed. “I want to leave as soon as possible, get back on the road.” Remembering suddenly why he’d left the room in the first place, he passed Dean the carrier bag containing polystyrene boxes with take-out breakfast in them. “There you go.”

Dean took the bag with a slight nod. “Thanks, Dad,” he mumbled, putting it down on the end of the bed Sam had slept in while he finished packing up their things. He didn’t want to start eating without Sam there; the kid was growing like a weed, and Dean was hard-pressed to make sure he had enough to eat. Most times, he ended slipping Sam half of his plate.

“Not gonna eat?” John asked, jerking his chin at the bag while his hands fumbled in his pocket, fingers finding his hipflask and curling round it, drawing it out and unscrewing the lid. He slugged down another measure of whiskey, closing his eyes briefly as it burned a trail of fire down his throat. “It’s gonna get cold, you leave it much longer.”

“I’m just waiting for Sammy,” Dean said, glancing over at his Dad, eyes widening when he saw what he was doing. He wanted to shout and tell him to cut it out, but all that came out was a sort of whimper. Forcefully Dean shook his head, denying that he’d made the sound straight away, hoping that his Dad hadn’t heard it.  He went back to packing the rest of Sam’s things. He still needed the pajamas his brother had been wearing before he’d gone for a shower, but those could be stuffed in the bag easy. Dean hadn’t changed out of his clothes while in bed and was willing to go out in the same clothes once more.

“Should eat it anyway. Serve the boy right for spending so long in the shower,” John shook his head and chuckled, swigging down another shot of whiskey. He wiped a hand over his mouth, catching the dribble of whiskey that had escaped his mouth.

The only reason Dean had turned his head was so that he could watch his father as he spoke, it was just one of those things that he did out of respect for the man. He hadn’t been planning on mentioning that Sam had actually only really just got into the shower, or that he would wait for him anyway before he started breakfast, but the glimpse of the hip flask prompted him into speaking.

“I--I thought we were moving on to somewhere else today?” Dean said. His confusion was genuine. Dad didn’t usually drink this early, and he hardly ever drank before they had a long drive (which Dean suspected this one was going to be). Why’d he tell him to pack if he had started drinking?

“That’s right,” John confirmed, meeting his elder son’s eyes defiantly. He had to look away after a moment, though it didn’t stop him from asking, “why, is there going to be a problem?” He knew why Dean had questioned him, knew himself that it wasn’t a good idea to drive in this state, but he’d be damned if he’d stay cooped up in this sad, dingy motel room on today of all days.

Dean’s first instinct had been to say no. Whenever his Dad questioned him like this the right answer was always “no, sir”. Routine almost had the words spilling from his mouth, when he remembered Sam.

“No…” he began; some habits were hard to break. “It’s just that… You were pretty sick last night from-- from drinking and-- and I just thought that if you were drinking again now then… then you wouldn’t want to be driving drunk with Sammy in the car…”

“You think I’d endanger you or your brother?” John exploded, rising up unsteadily from the bed to tower over Dean. Part of him was glad Dean was giving him a reason to lash out. Mood like this, he was always spoiling for a fight. “You think your old man’s a drunk? Think I can’t be trusted with my own kids?” His voice had risen to a shout with the last words, fuelled with alcohol-soaked rage and denial. He grabbed Dean by the shoulders, suddenly wildly infuriated by the boy. Dean wasn’t meant to question him, to defy him. Frustration made him tighten his grasp, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders, and he shook the boy -- once, twice, angered by the way Dean hung limp and passive in his grip. For a moment, he wished Dean would struggle, give him a reason to whack him one.

“Dad?” The horror in Sam’s voice shocked John out of his rage. He let go of Dean instantaneously, stepping away from the boy. Self-disgust curdled his stomach, forcing bile up his throat, the taste bitter in his mouth.

Dean had had enough sense to zip up the bag he was packing when Dad towered over him. He’d expected some sort of reaction, and really, he was thankful that it had just been a shaking instead of a smack. It was unlucky Sam had chosen that moment to come back in, and Dean wanted to tell him to go back into the bathroom and wait, but he was already dressed and ready to leave.

“No, sir,” he said quietly, looking up into his father’s eyes for a second and then back down at the floor. He moved over to Sam and took the pajamas he had been holding out of his hands to put them in the bag. It was while he was zipping up the bag again that he dared to speak some more. “But you were drunk when you came in last night… even though you were good too when I said I couldn’t sleep--”

John struck him before he could finish the sentence, a blow across the face that knocked him back onto the bed. A second after he hit him, John regretted it, wished it could be undone.

He became aware that he was shaking, mind suddenly, unpleasantly clear, the comforting drunken haze burnt away by his guilt. “Jesus, Mary--” he didn’t know what he was saying, who he was praying for forgiveness to. He stumbled towards Dean, only to be cut off by Sam, his little boy, pushing him away from his brother, standing between them like he was prepared to protect Dean from him. The sight would’ve made John proud if he didn’t already feel sick to his soul.

“You stay away from him.” Sam had tears tracked down his cheeks but his voice was steady, fierce. “Don’t you dare come near him, don’t you--” he broke off, sob rising in his throat, dashing angry tears roughly from his cheek. “Don’t you hurt him again!” He shoved John again, violently enough that John, already off-balance almost fell.

“Christ, Sammy,” John began, holding up his hands, though whether to placate or protest their harmlessness he didn’t know, “I’m not gonna hurt him, I swear.” But Sam was unmovable, and John couldn’t summon up the words to argue when he wasn’t convinced himself that Sam hadn’t the right off it. He’d struck Dean. The knowledgement made his stomach churn, and he had to stumble away, into the bathroom, where he fell on his knees on the cold, hard tiles in front of the toilet and retched.

Dean clutched his cheek where his Dad’s fist had hit him. It burnt worse than anything he had ever felt before. But the sting of the punch, which was going to leave a mark, was nothing compared to what he felt turn over in his stomach at the knowledge that he’d fucked up that badly somewhere along the line. And what hurt Dean more was that he didn’t know exactly what he had done.

Dean didn’t see Sam run over between the two of them and stand his ground to protect him. The indication he was given that his little brother was there, unnecessarily fighting his corner, was his voice. It sounded so angry, and a lot older than it should be… a lot older than even Dean himself was. The next thing Dean heard,  face stinging too much to look up and see, was their Dad throwing up into the toilet. That was his cue to get up, which he took it, pushing Sam away from him when he came over to see if he was okay, hurrying to the bathroom to make sure that his Dad was all right. Hesitantly Dean put a hand on his father’s back and rubbed it while he brought up the rest of whatever was still in his stomach.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Dean said, catching Sam’s eye and look of disgust, “Dad brought us some breakfast, Sammy. It’s in the plastic bag on your bed.”

John half-laughed, although there was no humour to the noise, as Dean tried to reassure him. Things weren’t okay. Everything was in fact pretty much the opposite of okay. He couldn’t believe he’d hit his son. It wasn’t like he’d never spanked Dean, or cuffed him round the ear when he misbehaved before, but this was different. For one, blinding moment, he’d let his anger and frustration get the best of him. It was something he’d never forget, and Dean would never forget too, no matter how hard he acted like things were normal. John could feel the slight tremble in Dean’s hand as it rested on his back, catch the almost imperceptibly flinch in his body as John sat up, the wariness of a beaten dog that still slinks back to the owner that beat it, wagging its tail and wondering what it did wrong.  

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he said, humble for once.

Dean shook his head quickly, not wanting to hear any of it. He was the one who should be sorry, although he didn’t know why. All he knew was that his Dad was almost always right and that he probably had good reason to… do what he’d done. He didn’t want to think about it, talking about it wouldn’t help.

“What time are we hitting the road, Dad?” he asked, stepping backwards into the motel room when he knew that his Dad was going to be okay without him there.

Sam was sitting on the bed, his breakfast, in its polystyrene holder, resting on his lap. He’d started to eat when Dean had instructed him to, but had watched the whole exchange between the two of them. His eyes looked angrily from their Dad and then to Dean as he sat next to him with his own breakfast in hand. They ate in silence as John cleaned his teeth and washed his face, still waiting to give the answer to whether or not they’d be leaving today.

John could hardly stand to be in the same room as his kids, and from the anger rolling off Sam in waves, it was clear the feeling went both ways with at least one of his sons. Even Dean, who normally took it upon himself to keep the peace between them, didn’t seem to know what to say or do. He kept shooting John these awful, apologetic looks, as if he thought he was the one in the wrong, and John wanted to sit down and correct him, tell him it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t deserved it, but couldn’t get the guts to. Who’d have thought, John Winchester a coward?

“I’m going out,” he mumbled, pulling on his jacket again, “I’ll be back later. Take--take care, all right?”

“Oh, we’ll be fine, without you to--” Sam cut himself off, biting his tongue and holding himself back with visible effort. John knew Sam wasn’t trying to spare his feelings; his eyes were fixed firmly on Dean, who’d gone white and shaky as Sam started to speak, hands twisting anxiously in the bedcovers.

Clearing his throat, John nodding, looking away. “All right,” he said quietly, then walked out the motel door. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to get far away from his boys, walking down the steps and onto the sidewalk, like if he just put enough distance between them he could leave his guilt behind.

Dean had wanted to speak up when their Dad said that he was going out, but Sam beat him to it. And his brother’s words weren’t exactly inviting their Dad to stay. He shot his brother a look and then back to their Dad as he left. Once he was gone Dean calmly finished eating his breakfast, waiting for Sam to start.

As soon as the door had closed, and the sound of their father’s footsteps had faded, Sam was off his side of the bed and crouching in front of Dean, hand hovering over the mark on Dean’s face as if he wanted to touch it but was too afraid, like Dean was fragile. “Are you okay?” Sam demanded, face fierce but afraid.

“Fuck off, Sam, I’m fine,” Dean said, a frown  of anger on his face. He didn’t like the way Sam was looking at him, and he didn’t like the way he was being treated. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take a punch, and it wasn’t like he was something that was fragile and needed tip-toeing around. “Of course I’m fine. Finish your breakfast.”

“Don’t lie,” Sam retorted, grabbing Dean’s chin a little roughly, angry at Dean for trying to push this down and out of sight like he did with all of Dad’s mistakes. “It’s not fine. You’re not fine, what Dad--what he did, that’s not okay.” Tears prickled in his eyes, and Sam swallowed, choked them down, stupid, it’s not like he was the one who got hit. Gently, he brushed his fingers over the bruise forming on Dean’s cheek. It was just beginning to fade from bright, shocked red to a darker, more sinister purple.

“I’m not lying,” Dean argued back. And the worst part of it was that he wasn’t. Sure, his cheek hurt and he knew that there’d be a bruise, could feel it there already. But he was fine with what had happened. He shouldn’t have brought up what had happened last night… that must have been what set his Dad off. Dad didn’t want Sammy to know that he needed someone there sometimes too because that would make him weak. Better for him to keep his mouth shut and Dad knew that. “Jeez, Sam, don’t cry. I’m absolutely fine. See.” He smiled awkwardly, even though doing so hurt. Dean put a hand to his cheek from the pain, inwardly cursing himself for not being able to show Sam that he was fine.

“Stop lying,” Sam ordered, seeing the way Dean’s face went tight with pain. Still, his brother was stubborn, stupidly so sometimes, and Sam knew that forcing a confrontation would get him nowhere. Dean would swear until his face turned blue that south was north if he wanted to. “God, Dean, you’re such a martyr sometimes, you know that?” He rolled his eyes, and got off the bed, going to the bathroom to run a washcloth under the cold tap. It wasn’t ice, but it would have to do. “Here,” he threw it at Dean’s face, torn between concern and frustration.

“I’m a what?” Dean called after Sam as he left him for the bathroom. Dean was surprised when his brother returned, throwing a wet washcloth at him. It hit him on the chest and then fell into his breakfast. Luckily he wasn’t really that hungry anymore anyway. Dean put his food down on the side of the bed and gently dabbed his cheek with the washcloth, grateful that Sam had gone to fetch it for him anyway--though he wasn’t going to say it.

Sam shook his head and didn’t bother answering. “Why were you and Dad arguing anyway?” he asked, unable to let it rest, “I thought making Dad lose his shit was my job, what happened to you acting like the model son?” He can’t help sounding slightly bitter, stabbing viciously at his slimy diner mushrooms.

Model son? Dean thought he had been acting like the 'model son'. He shouldn't have said anything about Dad being drunk last night. If Dad had let him finish, which he hadn't, Sam would have heard Dean say how good their Dad had been last night despite the fact he had been drunk; how he'd let him sleep in his bed with him when he couldn't sleep. But that wasn't something Sam was supposed to hear. He had to keep up the appearance that he didn't need anyone, and maybe if he played up to that role enough (and did it right) eventually he wouldn't need anyone. Then he could be there for Sam no matter what.

"We weren't arguing," Dean said, wincing as he moved the washcloth away from his cheek and pulled a face, "We were talking and... and..." His voice broke and he sobbed. He didn't know what he'd done wrong. His explanations so far didn't seem to add up, and he couldn't hide it from Sam. Damnit, as much as Dean tried he couldn't hide it from Sam. "I don't know." The tears stung as they ran down his cheek. "I don't know..." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Did you finish your breakfast, Sammy?" he said, wanting to change the subject and step over the fact that he was crying, "When Dad gets back he'll want to leave as soon as possible. We should be ready when he gets back. He might let you go to the library in the next down we go to, or something, and help him with the hunt..."

Sam didn’t like to see his brother crying; it wasn’t a sight he was accustomed to. He averted his eyes, placing a hand on Dean’s back comfortingly. “Sure, Dean,” he said optimistically, “I’m sure it’ll work out for the best.”

The hours passed, Dean and Sam finished packing, both avoiding discussing anything serious. An underlying tension ran through the afternoon, both of them anticipating their father’s arrival and trying to plan and accommodate for it, without actually acknowledging what had happened. Sam trod around Dean like he was on ice, delicately trying to avoid triggering whatever had set off Dean last time.

John came back, hours later, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, but alarmingly sober. “Ready to go, boys?” he asked, in a tone that aimed for casual, but missed it by several decibels.

When Dad came back Dean hurried to the door and stood attentively by it. His back was straight and he made sure to look his father in the eye as he spoke. “Yes, sir. We’re all packed up and ready to go.”

It was good to see that their Dad was starting to sober up. It meant that he’d be able to drive without putting any of them at risk.

“Take your stuff out to the car then,” John said, carefully managing to avoid eye-contact with either of his sons. He’d spent the day walking around, letting the drizzle lash against him, cold water soaking through his clothes and jerking him into an unwilling, shivering sobriety. The downside to this was, the less drunk he became, the greater the clarity he had to examine his own actions with. The way he’d reacted had terrified him, and as he so often did when he was terrified, he was running. Bobby was a comforting port in the storm. A safe place to dump the kids, without having to worry overly about the reception he’d face. Other hunters would understand. It was a hard life, and it took its toll on all of them.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Both boys ran past him at that, carrying their bag between them. Sam had crept up next to Dean with it while John had been talking. He watched on as they clamoured into the back seats of the Impala. Of course Dean wasn’t going to ride up front with him. Not today and probably not for a while. John couldn’t blame him. It was bad enough that they were going to be forced into a small enclosed space all with each other during the ride to Bobby’s. John would have to drop them off at Bobby’s. They needed a break from each other. They needed a break from him. John was never good around this time of the year. It was around this time, all those seemingly long years ago, that he and Mary had gotten married. The anniversary of their wedding hurt John nearly as much as the anniversary of her death. Just another reminder that this was not the way things were supposed to be. Drinking helped more than it should, only this time it had let him down facing a different opposition.

“Your face looks sore,” Sam said, once they’d started driving. John resisted the urge to look in the rearview mirror and see for himself. “Does it hurt? Damn, we should’ve got some frozen peas to put on it,  it’s gonna bruise like a bitch.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mumbled, glancing up at the back of his Dad’s head and then out the window. He didn’t seem to be listening. Dad was playing one of his tapes, maybe he was just listening to that. “Where’d you have got frozen peas from anyway? I don’t like peas.” Dean didn’t really care for any food that was green, unless there was some sort of meat and sauce involved.

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting you eat them,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “Although it wouldn’t hurt you to eat something with some actual nutritional value now and again, instead of living off burgers all the time. I mean,” Sam said, warming to his topic, “do you know how bad for you burgers are? Especially the kind you eat. It’s all grease and gristle. Even the buns are packed with preservatives. I don’t want to imagine what your arteries are gonna look like in twenty years.”

“Damn it, Sam, give it a rest would you?” John gritted out; his stomach still hadn’t settled from that morning, and the last thing he needed right now was Sam to describe food in nauseating detail.

“Why?” Sam said,defiantly. He was still really angry with his Dad, but he knew it’d upset Dean if he brought the hitting up again. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from venting some of his anger, “Just because you’re okay living off a liquid diet --”

John jerked the steering wheel round so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash, veering over to the side of the road. Sam shut his mouth, probably afraid he’d pushed John too far, but right then John couldn’t spare too much attention worrying about Sam’s feelings, too busy concentrating on trying to not paint the car interior with his stomach contents.  He yanked the door open, and leaned out just in time to throw up.

“Gross,” he heard Sam mutter.

Dean swallowed, breathing through his nose and  narrowing his eyes as he glared at Sam for a second, although Dad being sick wasn’t his fault.

“Shut up, Sam,” he ended up saying anyway, punching his brother in the arm before moving an arm forward to rub small circles into his Dad’s back. “You’re okay, Dad… You’re okay…”

“I’m okay,” John gasped, gratefully echoing Dean’s words. He waited until he was sure he was done, then sat up. He shrugged of Dean’s hand, feeling undeserving of the care in that touch. “I’m okay,” he repeated again, laughing hollowly at the lie. He wasn’t okay, hadn’t been okay for years. Sometimes, he thought Mary hadn’t been the only one to die in the fire. It felt like he was nothing more than the charred remains of the man he’d once been, like the fire had left him empty in some way. “Damn it.” He gripped the steering wheel, forced himself to say the words, though they left his mouth more bitterly than he had intended, “I’m sorry, Dean, okay? I’m sorry.”

Dean froze, slowly withdrawing his hand and quickly sitting on it. He didn’t know what to say, but he felt sick again. If Dad was sorry that meant that he had done something wrong, even though Dean still believed that it had been him. It wasn’t often that their Dad admitted to making a mistake. In fact, Dean couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. He nodded.

“It’s okay, Dad,” he mumbled, “Don’t mention it… It’s okay.” And it was, he supposed. If Dad said it was okay, and him saying sorry made it okay, then it was. It had to be.

Sam was frozen, wide-eyed. He was glad John hadn’t lost his temper again, and had taken a measure of vindictive pleasure in watching him throw up. It served him right. Still, Dean was looking extra-fragile now, so Sam shut up, sitting back in his seat and watching the landscape blur past. Their Dad hadn’t told them where they were headed, but they didn’t need to ask. The routes to Bobby’s were familiar enough that Sam was pretty sure he could’ve driven them there himself. Might have been a better idea, too.

Still, they made it there in one piece. Dogs barked as they drew up, and by the time Sam and Dean were hauling their duffels out, Bobby was standing in the doorway. He looked almost surprised to see them, which was weird. They’d go months without seeing Bobby sometimes, but he never seemed startled when they arrived. Sam wondered if he was in the middle of something.

“Didn’t think you’d be dropping by this time of year,” Bobby said as they approached the door, but it was clear the words were addressed to John.

“Been a change of plans,” John grunted, in a tone that indicated he wasn’t going to explain for anyone not in the loop. Sam swallowed his frustration at not knowing; he’d already pushed things far enough today.

After grabbing their bags, Dean fell into place behind Dad, flanking him obediently as they made their way up to Bobby. What time of year was it? Sure, he had a vague memories of Dad getting like this every so often, but he hadn’t noticed any sort of pattern in their father’s drunkenness. Then again, that could just be his lack of concentration. He and Sam would probably discuss it when they got the chance to anyway.

“Hey Bobby,” Dean said, looking up at the man. It was strange to be here. He got that his Dad probably needed space, but usually he gave some sort of indication that he was going to drop them to Bobby’s; even if it was just a ‘That’s it!’

“Hey boys,” Bobby said, nodding at them both, “Why don’t ya go put yer things away? Me and yer daddy need to talk about a couple of things.” He stepped aside to let them pass.

John could tell Bobby knew something was up. He knew what John was like at this time of the year, knew he liked to be alone, couldn’t be reached for about a week. For him to show up like this was unprecedented. Still, they waited until the boys had disappeared upstairs into the spare room they shared when at Bobby’s.

Sighing, John nodded at Bobby, silently acknowledging that they needed to talk, and walked past him into the room that functioned as his study, heading straight for the drawer that Bobby kept his drink in. He slumped into one of the battered armchairs,and took a swig from a bottle, staring broodingly at one of the worn patches in the carpet, “I messed up, Bobby.”

“Yer messed up?” Bobby repeated once they were both safely inside the confines of his home, glad the boys were upstairs. “Did somethin’ get at Dean? That’s some nasty lookin’ bruise he’s got on his cheek there. What happened?”

“Something got at him.” John pressed a hand over his face, closing his eyes, “Me.” He chuckled darkly, self-deprecatingly, “I hit him, Bobby. My own son.” He shuddered, drew in a painful breath through a throat drawn tight with emotion. “Can you believe that? I try to protect him from all the monsters out there, and turn into one instead. It’s this life, Bobby. It changes you.” He opened his eyes and looked at Bobby. The old hunter’s face was closed, hard to read, none of the understanding John had hoped to see there. Clearing his throat roughly, he shrugged, retreating back to solace of whiskey, “he’ll forgive me though. God knows he shouldn’t.”

Bobby didn’t say a word as he listened, even though there was a lot that he wanted to say. It took him awhile to gather enough calm to speak. During this time he watched John quietly, not even daring to move. He wasn’t going to say anything about the man reaching for the bottle, god knew he’d done that enough times himself not to judge anyone who did, but it didn’t stop the anger building inside him. It took a lot for him to lose his temper, but when he did… It was only after he’d swung the punch that he realised what he’d done.

John staggered backwards, nearly dropping the bottle, cursing and clutching at his face. Bobby was glad that the bottle hadn’t been dropped.

“Yer damn right he shouldn’t,” he snapped, taking a step back, “An’ yer damn right it does. But that ain’t no excuse an’ you know that.”

Carefully, he put the whiskey bottle down, then raised a hand to check his jaw was still in place. His ears were ringing from the blow. It’d been a long time since something or someone had managed to land a hit like that, and even longer since he hadn’t retaliated. “Guess I deserved that.” He winced, running his tongue over his teeth and tasting blood. “I just, I can’t stop thinking about what she’d say if she knew.” Absently, he touched the ring he still wore. It was battered, simple silver. They’d been too poor to afford anything fancy, and it’d gotten pretty scratched up over the years, but he still wouldn’t take it off, wasn’t sure if he still could. It served as a reminder. Normally, that brought him comfort, but right now he didn’t want to think about Mary.

Bobby took his time before answering again. He’d half expected a fist to the face back but that never came. “I wouldn’ want to guess,” he said eventually, shaking his head, “An’ yer right, yer did deserve it. How’s he doin’ anyway? Did yer say anythin’ about it?” He doubted that John had, and he doubted even more that Dean was okay.

“Yeah,” John said, nodding, “I might be a bastard, but I apologised.” Now that the shock of the punch was wearing off, John was feeling a little less receptive to Bobby’s anger. More than a part of him wished he hadn’t bothered coming, remembering why he spent months without seeing Bobby. He didn’t like the way Bobby was looking at him, the disgust visible in his eyes. “He’s holdin’ up. You know Dean, resilient. He’s gotten worse scrapping at school with the other boys. C’mon, Bobby. He’s going to be a hunter. He’s going to have to face worse.”

“Sure he’s gunna have to face worse,” Bobby said, “But it shouldn’t be his daddy that he faces worse of. You need him to be a good hunter, look out for Sam an’ even yerself when the time comes? Then yer need trust, and yer ain’t gunna get no trust from him if yer beat him around all the time, an’ I ain’t just talking about this. Though if yer did somethin’ like this again you know how he’s not gunna turn out good.” Like him. But Bobby didn’t add that. “Yer too hard on yer boys sometimes, John. It ain’t gunna make them like you.”

“I don’t want them to like me,” John snapped, getting to his feet, “I’m not meant to be their friend. I’m their father, and they’re meant to damn well do what I say, when I say. Without question. Now, I’m not saying I was right to hit Dean, but he was questioning my authority, and that’s the sort of thing that’d get him killed in a hunt.” He glared at Bobby, sick and tired of the way the man was looking at him, “ I don’t expect you to understand, old man, what the hell would you know about being a father?”

“I know it ain’t right to hit yer kids,” Bobby answered, “An’ I know that if yer treat them in a way that makes them hate you they may start not wanting to protect you. Yer got to be careful not to push em’ too far, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

Upstairs, Sam sat on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, watching Dean unpack, both of them trying to pretend they couldn’t hear the raised voices coming from downstairs. Dean was talking,  though Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t making much sense, just trying to cover up the sound of Dad and Bobby arguing. Sam wondered if this is what it was like when parents fought. “I wouldn’t bother unpacking if I were you,” he said, cutting Dean off.

Dean looked up, putting the handful of clothes he had in his hands down onto the bed. “Why?” he asked, eyeing Sam nervously, “We’ve just got here. Dad usually lets us stay here for days, weeks sometimes. He’ll be mad if we didn’t unpack. Get off the bed and help me, would you?”

It was easier to scold Sam than pretend that he wasn’t listening to what was going on downstairs. Boy, their Dad was angry, and he’d never heard him shout at Bobby like that before. He’d never heard Bobby shout like that either. Something wasn’t right.

“How about you stop trying to make this into something more than it is,” John snarled, moving towards Bobby aggressively, “I messed up. I can admit it. Don’t mean I’m a bad father.” He snorted, “Besides, some kids just ask for it, now and again.”

“I don’t like this,” Sam said quietly, as a sudden lull fell downstairs. Sam didn’t know what his Dad was saying, but whatever it was, he was clearly angry about it. Part of Sam wanted to sneak down and see what was going on, but a bigger part of him wanted to curl up on the bed and pretend he couldn’t hear.

“You ever say that again, John Winchester, and you ain’t never welcome back in my house again,” Bobby said, a quiet anger taking a hold of him, “I care for those boys up there, an’ it would be wrong to kick them out with you, so I’m just gunna pretend that I didn’t hear it this time round. One thing I will say is this, no kid ever asks to be treated like that. Take a look at me an’ my daddy, I never asked to get punched around by him and an’ it still happened. An’ we were most certainly not askin’ for it.”

Dean’s eyes softened as he saw the fear on Sammy’s face. He moved towards him, abandoning the half unpacked bag for now, to sit up onto the bed with him. He put an arm around his little brother and did his best to comfort him.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Sammy,” he said, rubbing the other’s arm, “I bet Dad will go soon and sort all this out on his own. Then when he comes and gets us he and Bobby will be alright together again.”

Downstairs, John and Bobby were stood, facing off against each other in tense silence. Bobby’s face was set. John didn’t doubt he meant what he said--he just didn’t care. Swallowing thickly, John jerked his head in a quick nod. “You don’t have to kick me out. I can tell where I’m not welcome. You may care about Sam and Dean, but you’re not their father. I am.” He took a vindictive pleasure in the words; Bobby, though he’d never say it in words, loved his boys, and John knew this would hurt him. Still, he shouldn’t have made an ultimatum like that. Bobby looked broken as John turned on his heels, and John felt a sick pleasure. Maybe now Bobby would understand how John felt, constantly afraid that the things he loved most in the world were going to be taken away from him.

Bobby watched as John left the room to go upstairs and take his boys, his sons away. Maybe he had overstepped some sort of mark but, damn it, somebody needed to tell that man when he’d done something wrong. Bobby didn’t follow the other upstairs, picking up the bottle that John had left down there instead. He drank from it, trying to work out what was going to happen next.

John stomped up the stairs, and yanked Sam and Dean’s door open. “C’mon,” he said gruffly, “We’re leaving.”

Dean jumped off of Sam’s bed as their Dad entered, nearly breaking the door off of its hinges. His eyes were wide with confusion and fear as he looked up at him. Sam flinched, not moving otherwise.

“But we just got here…?” Dean started, glancing over at their open bag, “I thought we would stay here for a bit when you went off to… to hunt, or something? Why’re we leaving so soon?”

John didn’t answer, just gave Dean a look that told him this wasn’t up for debate. He wrenched Dean’s bag over and pulled open the drawers with a clatter. “Move,” he ordered, thrusting the bag into Dean’s arms so hard he stumbled backwards, “you too, Sam, start packing.”

“I hadn’t unpacked,” Sam muttered, too fearful to say anything more confrontational, but too resentful to hide his annoyance.

John narrowed his eyes at him, sensing Sam’s sulkiness, but seeing nothing overt enough to comment on. “Get out to the car then, don’t just sit there.”

Dean was too perplexed and angry at being uprooted again so quickly to bother in trying to keep Sam from mouthing off. He shoved whatever he’d unpacked, moments before, back into the bag, then stood at the end of the bed.

“Can’t we say bye to Bobby?” he asked, wanting to find out exactly what happened between the two grown-ups which resulted in him and Sam having to leave. “He’ll be sorry to see us go so soon. We should say bye to Bobby first.”

“You should do what I tell you,” John snapped; Dean’s loyalty to Bobby was reminding him of all the reasons he liked the old hunter, why this was a bad idea, but it was too late now. He’d made his choice. “He’s made it clear we’re not welcome here.” John watched Dean’s face fall at the words, part of him sorry to be the reason that had put it there, part of him glad, coldly certain it’d stop anymore questions. Dean, for all his posturing, was a sensitive kid. “Now get out to the car, move.” Dean hesitated, and John cuffed him round the ear, ignoring the wounded look on Dean’s face. Now he wouldn’t be welcome even if he apologised to Bobby.

“Sorry sir,” Dean said quietly as he hurried out of the room, following Sam down to the car. On his way out he saw Bobby standing the the doorway to the living room. He didn’t turn around to look at him in case his Dad was right behind and saw. Sammy was already out the door and running to the car, leaving Dean to carry their bag on his own. The side of his head hurt a bit but it was nothing compared to what he had felt earlier. And this time he knew he’d deserved it.

John paused on the doorstep; he felt like something needed to be said, but he felt too ashamed to meet Bobby’s eyes. “Well, I guess this is it,” he said, nodding towards Bobby. He cleared his throat awkwardly, still avoiding eye-contact, “Bye.”

When Dean climbed into the car Sam was already in the back, waiting for him. They looked at each other without saying a word. Dean made sure that Sam’s seat belt was on before clipping on his own. He didn’t dare look back at the house. It felt wrong to be leaving so soon, they’d only just got there after all, and Dad had seemed like he’d needed some time alone. Dean hoped this didn’t mean he’d be left in some motel room for a couple more days alone with Sam, that was the last thing he wanted. But if his Dad needed him to do that, then he would.

Back outside, John was still hesitating on the doorstep, reluctant to leave without some kind of closure.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Bobby’s voice was gruffer than usual, “I mean it, you idjit, I ain’t saying this ‘cause I give a rat’s ass about you right now, John, but you got those boys to think about. I hope you take better care of them.” His voice broke a little towards the end, and John risked a glance at his face. Bobby was putting a brave face on it, but John was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes. It felt pretty awful, like he was tearing a family apart. The only thing he could compare it to was the times Mary had kicked him out while Sam was little.

“Look, Bobby...” John began awkwardly, fumbling for an apology.

“No. Don’t you bother, John Winchester, you made yer choice. Now git out.”

John scuffed a boot against the floorboard, and nodded. “All right.” Reluctantly, he left, walking out to the car. From the gloomy silence that greeted him, he wasn’t the only one who felt like they were moving in the wrong direction. He started the engine, and backed out of Bobby’s drive. Somehow, putting distance behind him didn’t make him feel better like it usually did. Everything was falling apart. Something was wrong with him. Every relationship he had fell apart. Him and Mary had been falling apart before the fire, now he’d burnt his bridges with Bobby, and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose Sam and Dean. Sam… he was never sure how to deal with Sam. Kid was only nine, but he was more stubborn than most men. Dean was simpler.  “Hey, Dean. You want to pick a tape?”

Dean jumped at the sound of his Dad’s voice. They’d been driving in silence for so long that he hadn’t expected anyone to say anything. Quickly he nodded, undoing his seatbelt so that he could lean forwards and choose some music. Sam was looking absently out the window, not paying them any attention.

“Sure, Dad,” he said, “I can do that.”


End file.
